where past and present interweave


was a good  year for poetry. 

There were two reasons for that: 
the first was the constant life and bustle in the Echo:
the second was,  for me, the influence of Julia Cameron's book - lent me by a dear friend..
snippets from my 'three pages scribbling a morning did find their way into the echo,  some of them after a bit of a tidy up.. of course!

Here are two  of them. The first posted in order to test the links, and trace the progress of Fido mail round the country!

As for the other two,  I doubt if I would ever have thought of them without that morning exercise.



two headed guide ?

morning, promises 




       You grip me, Morning, with a fist of plans,
       proddings, lists, wantings, mental notes,
       and the occasional wish to party.
       All this can't happen before nightfall
       not that I care. You've got some cheek
       Day! Delivering this long, crushing list
       and then ambling on by, on your own, 
       towards noon.

-Alice Thorpe.
07 May 97

some things stay
       for all our
       worry and coaxing
       why won't you
               come out, tell me,
       sing in my open head?

19 May 97


  There used to be cranes, I remember
  down by the creek, through the valley,
  and little blue pukeko near the swamp.
  Now the real cranes swing and sway
  loop and swoop, and soon
  the motorway will have come
  just that much further along the way.
  By the wall at the garden centre,
  someone has taken away six fine
  specimens of the red berry tree
  and for the life of me,
   I can't see why. Where do the blue
   crane go, I wonder, in the cold
   when the real crane sweep the sky?

-Alice Thorpe
26 Apr 97


                                    (but joy cometh)
               This new day seems to curve her polished grey
               around an inner light; How dark these trees
               stand, hard against the dawn. The cave of birds
               shatters the weeping stillness of my night

               now heart catch fire as clouds reveal the edge
               of sunlight rising under hill: O Son
               of Dawning, I await your bright returns!

  Alice Thorpe
        Imbolc, 1997
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